


Deleted Scenes and DVD Extras

by Deisderium



Series: Lines in Ink [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Blow Jobs, Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Chest Hair, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff and Smut, Friendship, Goats, Hand Jobs, Kissing, M/M, Natasha Romanov Feels, Nipples, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Tattoo Aftercare, Tattooed Bucky Barnes, Tattooed Steve Rogers, Tattoos, Wakandan Vacation, butt stuff, of a sort
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-29
Updated: 2019-01-04
Packaged: 2019-09-29 21:10:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17211020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deisderium/pseuds/Deisderium
Summary: This is a collection of some scenes and vignettes that didn't really fit in Lines in Ink for one reason or another, but that I wanted to write anyway. If there's a missing scene or POV that you wanted to see from the main fic but didn't, let me know and I will try to oblige. <3The rating will vary from chapter to chapter, but I'll let you know in the summary.





	1. Goats, the Stars, a Friend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky invites Natasha to meet his goats; she finds more than she expects at his village home. 
> 
> rating: Gen for ex-assassin friendship feels

Natalia Romanova is not, in particular, a fan of the caprine genus, but when James Buchanan Barnes extends the invitation to come meet his goats, she doesn't want to decline. It's not that she has anything against them--she's pretty neutral on the subject--but the life of a former assassin turned rogue agent hasn't offered much in the way of farm animal experience.  

She might have started helping James because of a sense of recognition about what he was going through and a stronger sense of loyalty to Steve Rogers, but in the months that she's been in Wakanda, she's come to appreciate James for James. Whether who he is now is anything like the man Steve loved before the war, she has no idea, but the man she's come to call a friend is certainly worth knowing. 

They have spent time together in Birnin Zana. She's walked with him down the broad avenues and boulevards, eaten at his favorite restaurants, spoken Russian with him as they toured the huge zoological park just outside of the city, kept him company through some tense days when Steve had just left on an operation and she had just come back from one. She thinks she might be one of his closer friends, outside of Steve; a space shared by Shuri and Wanda and T'Challa, and in a strange, shit-talking, semi-hostile way, Sam Wilson. 

She's never been to the village that's his other home. It's private, she thinks, a place for him and sometime Steve, though most often he and Steve live together in Birnin Zana. One of the Dora Milaje flies her out in a snug little aircraft that she finds herself coveting; it's nearly silent. 

"Tell Barnes to call when you want to return," the woman says, after Natasha thanks her for the lift. "We'll come fetch you." 

She's seen the map. The little village by the river is quite a haul from Birnin Zana, but the flight took less than an hour. The aircraft vanishes into the sky and Natasha watches it dwindle and diminish into nothing in a matter of moments, her hand shading her eyes against a bright blue sky spotted with white clouds. 

It's a beautiful place. The river is green and placid, lush with surrounding trees. The Dora Milaje dropped her a little distance from the village, possibly to avoid disturbing the livestock, but small figures are running toward her; it wasn't far enough to keep from being spotted. 

One of the running children peels off to one of the huts, and moments later, a much taller shape comes into view, waving at her with his right arm. She waves back and starts off toward him. The children catch up to her well before she gets to James. They break around her legs, touching her elbow, her knee, the back of her hand. They tug at her hands, pulling her forward. She stumbles a little on the rough path, gravel sliding beneath her heels. The children swirl around her, chattering to each other, laughing as she slides a little. She's no one to them, she realizes, and feels it in her chest with a tiny shock. She's just James's friend, and probably not even his most interesting one, considering that Steve often comes to visit and Steve is built like...well, like Steve. 

James is walking to meet her, and to her bemusement, the children clamber over him, bumping into his waist, holding their arms up for him to lift them into the air. He obliges, curling his right arm up with two of them hanging off it at a time, a third trying to scramble up to his shoulders.

She gets to the bottom of the hill, and to her surprise, James pulls her into a one-handed hug after he sheds his passengers, brief but real. His skin is darker than the last time she saw him, the faint creases around his eyes pale where the sun hasn't touched the skin as he squinted. His smile is as wide as she's ever seen it, genuinely pleased to see her. They break apart and she takes the opportunity to scan him head to toe. 

His hair is longer, half of it pulled back into a knot at the back of his head, the rest falling free around his shoulders. He's wearing the same kind of traditional dress the children are, loose robes over loose pants, a kind of shawl knotted around his broad shoulders and covering the stump of his left arm. Interesting; she knows he has a prosthetic. 

He's done his own scan, looking her over, doubtless also drawing his own conclusions. She holds her arms wide, silently asking what he thinks. He smiles, and then tilts his head toward the hut he came out of. "Can I show you around?" 

"Sure," she says. The children move with them, asking James questions, presumably about her from the looks he shoots her, still smiling. He answers in Xhosa. Did he know it as the Asset or did he learn it when he came here? They say a name to him again and again.

"What do they call you?" she says. 

He looks at her sidelong. It's hard to tell under his tan, but he might be blushing. "It means White Wolf." 

She takes a moment to savor that flash of embarrassment, thinking of ways she might use it against him, but only out of habit. The Winter Soldier would never have let anyone see anything like that, if he had even been capable of feeling it, but James trusts her enough to do so. She decides not to ask him why they call him that; at least, not yet.  

He shows her his home. She compliments him on it. It is, she thinks, more than either of them could have conceived of when they were nothing more than weapons to be aimed at someone else's throat. She drops her bag in a second bedroom that has clearly never been used and possibly was converted from some other purpose after he asked her here, then follows him outside. 

"Look," he says softly, and she does. The river stretches away in one direction, so wide, a lake if she didn't know better, but on the other side of his hut, there are houses and fields, low twisting trees she can't identify...

...and goats.

They are smaller than she expects, white and brown and kind of cute in their own square-pupiled way. 

"What do they do?" she asks, a little dubiously.

James looks at the goats with what she thinks is fondness. "For me? Not all that much. Some of the villagers milk theirs, and they're there for meat, too, and they use the hides..." He shrugs and waves his one arm. "Kind of hard to milk them with one hand. They're mostly just companion goats when they're with me."

"Companion goats." She glances at him, still surveying his goatish domain. "You can't milk them with your prosthetic?"

"I guess I could." His nose wrinkles as he thinks about it, and Natasha takes a moment to think about the turns her life has taken. The Winter Soldier was a ghost story to her until he became all too real in Odessa; the failure of that mission had stung worse than the through-and-through in her abdomen. She'd run up against him again after that, more than once, even after she'd started trying to help him. The past iterations of herself had not been able to imagine this moment, even the one in Berlin who had known that he could be helped; the world's most feared assassin, who'd tried to kill her more than once, telling her about his companion goats, finishing his thought about milking them with, "I wouldn't want to hurt them. The prosthesis is a lot harder than this hand, and I understand it hurts them until the milk releases. There are a lot of other people who can do it, anyway."

He opens a gate to a paddock behind the house and waves her through. She follows without any visible sign of hesitation, internally not sure how much she really wants to meet them. She has a difficult time warming to most animals. It's not anything about the animals themselves; she was taught to see them as potential complications to ops and to remove them as efficiently as possible. Encouraging attachment to them would have been counter to the mission. It had taken her a long time to warm up to Clint's dog Lucky, and even longer before she had been ready for her cat Liho. But these are James's goats, so she girds her loins and rolls her shoulders back (only on the inside; she doesn't want him to know that she's hesitant about his companions) and walks through the gate. 

The goats swarm her and she goes absolutely still to keep herself from reaching for any of her knives (small of her back, thigh, calf, both shoulder) but after a second they push past her to their true destination. James laughs, a sound much lighter than she can remember from him, and pulls handfuls of carrots from somewhere, and distributes them to the goats. "Here you go," he murmurs to one; "Don't push, there's plenty," to another; and phrases of Xhosa that might be commands and might be names to all of them. The goats eat happily, little bearded chins wagging as they chew. 

Something in Natasha relaxes, watching them, some tiny piece of herself she didn't realize she was withholding. She knows--she's known for a while--that James did the work to fix himself. She knows that some asshole isn't going to get him with the trigger words, and she won't find herself with his metal hand around her throat again. But now, watching him in his robe and bare feet feeding carrots to his goats, she really believes that he's his own person now. Whether that person is the one that Steve remembers from before, she couldn't say, and doesn't need to; he and Steve both seem happy with who he is now. But he's a person all his own, and she feels confident about it now. 

He shows her around the village, and she meets his neighbors, and it's fine, as far as she can tell; a small town with small town gossip, but in a language that she doesn't know. It's only later, after the goats and the people are all in bed and the two of them are sitting on what she'd call a porch, probably, looking at the stars, and he's made her tea just how she likes it, that he says anything about it directly. 

"It's nice," he says, after they've been silent so long she's not sure what he's talking about. "The goats don't mind," he goes on, and then she gets it. 

"Neither do the children," she says softly, "and it seems like the adults don't either." 

"Yeah." He takes a sip of his tea, still not looking at her. "When I first came here, I couldn't believe that they really didn't care who I was. Because they knew. Not the kids, maybe, but everyone else. And it's not that they don't care, exactly. But they know what I--what happened to me and they want to help." He clears his throat. "You should know what that's like too, Natashka."

She raises her cup to her lips. She's not thirsty, she just wants to hide her reaction. She doubts that she does, not from him. What would it be like? She knows what it's like to have no one recognize her--she's very good at blending into a crowd, or a desolation, if it comes to that. But to have people, not Clint or Steve or Maria, but normal people, neighbors, who know what she's done and aren't afraid...she can't imagine it. Trying gives her a kind of vertigo, like standing on a cliff's edge and bracing herself against a gusty breeze. She shakes her head without meaning to. 

"It's why I wanted you to come here." He's watching her intently, and out of the corner of her eyes, she sees him smile. "Well, and I wanted to see you."

"That too," she murmurs, and is proud of the steadiness of her voice. She stirs her spoon in her tea, watching the liquid swirl. When it finally stills, if she angles it just so, she can see the reflection of the stars mirrored there. James waits her out patiently. "They're your neighbors, though," she finally says. "They know you. They accept you." She gives the final _you_ the faintest stress, just to keep it distinguished from _her_. "They know your history. They don't know mine." 

He laughs, an unexpected sound that warms her as much as the tea has. It's good to hear him laugh so much. "Everyone in Wakanda knows everything about us." He spins the kimoyo bead at his wrist. "They've been closed to outsiders for centuries. T'Challa might be changing things here, but they're not just going to let a bunch of random enhanced people wander around without giving the citizenry a heads up. Relevant information about me is there for anyone who cares to look it up." He taps the bead again. "I guarantee there is about you, too. They know about your ledger. It's just they also know that you're trying to balance it, and that's what they care about." 

Natasha shakes her head again, but this time it's because she's fallen off the edge of the cliff and been caught by an unexpected hand. She thought she was just James's friend here, and taken comfort in anonymity, but it was never the case. There's something small and warm inside of her, uncurling tentatively. Her chest expands in a couple of heaving breaths to make room for it. 

James reaches out, catches her elbow with his hand. It's warm, and through the thin fabric of her sleeve she can feel the calluses where tending the goats and the farm have roughened the skin in different places than her own gun calluses. He squeezes gently for a second, then lets his hand fall away. It's enough to steady her. 

He is kind enough not to make her talk. "There's a market tomorrow in town," he says, leaning back and looking out over the dark land toward the tiny lights of his neighbors' homes. "We could go there. I need to get some things, and you could meet some of my friends here." 

Natasha thinks about being exposed to the people here--not her interior self, which has been inviolate since Clint brought her in--but in her history. It's worse than after she dumped the SHIELD files, in a way; but better in another. The risk of exposure is vulnerability, but the reward...

She can look at James and see the possible reward, she realizes. Their circumstances aren't the same, of course, but there's a lot of common ground in their pasts, and he is more relaxed around the eyes and in the shoulders than she's ever seen him before, and some of that is Steve, but some of it isn't. Some of it is living here with children climbing on him and goats in his pasture and neighbors who know what he has done and don't blame him for it. Who accept him, even welcome him. She tries again to imagine that for herself, and this time it doesn't feel like a precipice, but only a small drop.

She takes another sip of her tea. It's gone lukewarm, but the smoky flavor and the hint of raspberry are still there. "The market sounds nice. Let's do that." 

"Good," he says, and companionable silence settles over them, comfortable as an old blanket. 

The two of them sit a while longer, looking out over the sleeping goats, under the stars.


	2. Aftercare

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve's new tattoo heals up. He and Bucky celebrate.
> 
> This chapter is rated E for explicit sexytimes. Thank you Mamahub for the prompt!

Steve runs his fingers over his shirt where the plastic wrap sticks over his new tattoos. They've stopped hurting. "Can I take this off yet?" 

Bucky crosses over from the kitchen in their suite in Birnin Zana, carrying two glasses of water. He sets them on the table next to them. "It's been a few hours. Let me take a look." 

Steve rucks his shirt up over his chest immediately and tosses it aside. Bucky glances down and then back again, taking in Steve's chest. It makes Steve's pulse speed. This thing between them is still so new, and it doesn't feel fragile to Steve--it feels like the strongest thing in the world--but they are still learning it. Neither one of them knowing what's allowed and when, both of them uncertain. But Steve likes Bucky's gaze tracing the swell of his chest to the tattoo. He likes the feeling that this body can be turned to gentler use than being a weapon.

Bucky leans forward and carefully peels back the plastic wrap, exposing the tattoo to the air. He rubs his thumb gently over the remains of the ointment, smoothing it over the crisp lines, and Steve can't help the hitch in his breath. 

Bucky's head snaps up, eyes searching his face. "Does it hurt?" 

"No. Not at all." He settles his hands on Bucky's hips. "The opposite." 

Bucky's eyelids drop a little at that, heavy-lidded and not-quite sleepy, and he slides his thumb more deliberately, over the tattoo and through Steve's sparse chest hair toward his nipple. Steve's breathing is already coming faster, just from this, and he lets out a sigh as Bucky rubs his nipple, slow and deliberate. 

"Buck," he says, voice hoarse. "Take your shirt off?"  

Bucky only hesitates a second. He's wearing the prosthetic Shuri made for him, so he pulls his shirt off easily. Steve's hands are still at his hips, and Steve pulls him a little closer. Bucky is larger all over than he was when they were young, thick with muscle in all directions. Shuri made the prosthetic to mirror his right arm, so it too has the curve of his bicep, the breadth of his forearm. Steve takes a second to drink in the sight of him. Dark hair covers his muscular chest, but not enough to obscure where he's tattooed Steve's tags on him. 

Steve lifts his hand to that tattoo, brushes it with his fingers, trying to press his love and desire into Bucky's skin. It hits him like a hammer blow every time he sees that tattoo, every time he thinks of it: Bucky out there alone and rebuilding himself, marking himself with the force of his emotion for Steve. As soon as he'd seen it, he'd wanted Bucky's tags for himself, indelible. 

And now he has them.  He pulls Bucky closer so their chests are flush together, ink to ink, and tilts his head for a kiss. Bucky's lips are soft, and open to his, and his mouth is cool from the water he was drinking. Bucky licks into his mouth, and want shocks Steve, more urgent than the pleasant warmth that's been building in him. He makes a sound against Bucky's lips, and Bucky pulls him closer. 

"Is this okay?" Bucky says, and Steve has to collect himself. He opens his eyes. Bucky's pupils are blown wide, his irises thin lines of blue around them. He glances down, toward the prosthetic, and Steve gets it. This is the first time Bucky's worn it, the first time he's touched him with it. 

"Yeah, Buck, it's fine with me." Steve's voice is a little breathless. That's okay; breathless is how he feels. "Whatever you're comfortable with." 

Bucky smiles, and Steve remembers this one. It had made him ache to see him turn it on his dates in the thirties, even when he wasn't sure why, but now it's turned on him. Bucky hooks the prosthetic arm behind him, and drapes himself over Steve, running his right hand up and down Steve's side, want sparking in its wake. 

Bucky walks him backward, not breaking their kiss, still moving his hand over the planes of Steve's body, his metal hand splayed firmly against the small of Steve's back. Steve goes willingly, sliding his own hands up the trail of hair from Bucky's navel to his pecs. Bucky's nipples are small and flat and brown, surrounded by a corona of dark hair. Steve gives into temptation and pushes his fingers through the hair, over the stiffening flesh beneath. Bucky moans and the sound takes Steve's cock from mostly hard to aching. He presses against Bucky, angling his hips so his erection lines up against Bucky's. The friction is enough to send a cascade of sensation through him, every molecule where they touch charged with wanting.

Steve groans and starts them moving again toward the bedroom. There are so many things he wants to do with Bucky and almost all of them will be easier if they're lying down.

Bucky trails kisses from the side of Steve's mouth along his jawline and down his neck. Steve tilts his head to the side, obliging, so Bucky can bite and suck along his neck and to his clavicle. Bucky sets his teeth in the meat of Steve's shoulder and bites gently and Steve makes an embarrassing sound and thank God they've made it to the bed. Steve pushes Bucky into it and he falls, laughing, pulling Steve on top of him, and Steve is gasping with how good it feels to be pressed up against him, Bucky's body solid and warm beneath him. 

Steve moves up so he's straddling Bucky's hips and braces himself on his arms so he can get his mouth on him. He starts at the knob of bone directly below his ear, where the skin is unspeakably soft, and licks down the tendon of his neck. Steve bends until his mouth is level with Bucky's nipple, drags his tongue across it, then sucks hard. Bucky arches his back beneath him, bowing his body to meet Steve's mouth. 

"Fuck, Steve," Bucky says like a benediction. Steve shifts his weight to his left arm so he can drag his right hand over Bucky's spit-shiny nipple, down his torso, coming to rest on the ridge of his cock, hot even through the layers of his clothes, while he moves his mouth to Bucky's other nipple. He hooks his fingers around the waistband of Bucky's jeans, then leans back for a second to unbutton and unzip the fly. Bucky looks up at him, his eyes dark with need, arms flung back, spread out like an offering. Steve wants nothing more than to offer himself back, again and again for all time. 

He tugs Bucky's jeans down over his lifted hips, and he's still not ready for the sight of Bucky's prick straining up, flushed and hard, because of him. Maybe he never will be, and that's all right. Bucky shoves his jeans the rest of the way off with his feet. Steve starts to slide back up him but Bucky says hoarsely, "Yours too," so Steve unbuckles his belt, undoes his fly, and steps out of his pants. His cock is already so hard, he can't help groaning as he gets free of his clothes. He's not even self-conscious, because Bucky is looking at him like he wants to devour him, like Steve is the single best thing he's ever seen. 

Steve knows the feeling. He wants to melt onto Bucky, mold himself along his limbs until neither one of them knows where they begin or end. Fuck, he's missed him so much, and he has him now in ways he'd never let himself imagine. He puts his hands on Bucky's calves and slides up along the bones of his legs, his fingers shaping the divots to the sides of his knees, the long muscles of his thighs. Then he gets a better idea and kisses the rest of the way up Bucky's thigh to his cock. His skin is faintly salty, the skin soft as Steve licks him from root to tip. The head is shiny with precome that Steve licks away. 

Bucky groans and his legs shift, falling open. Steve slides his right hand up the soft skin of Bucky's inner thigh, cups his fingers around Bucky's balls as he takes the tip of his prick into his mouth and slides down and then back up. 

"Steve, _Jesus_ ," Bucky says in a ragged whisper. Bucky's flesh hand curls around the fingers of Steve's hand where he's bracing himself on the mattress, and Steve squeezes back without breaking the rhythm of his mouth on Bucky's cock. His own erection drags against the sheets and he moans around the head of Bucky's prick. "God,  you feel good," Bucky murmurs, and it makes him moan again, because the knowledge that Bucky wants him, that his body can do something for Bucky's, has him running hotter than just friction on his dick ever could. 

He lets the fingers around Bucky's balls drift lower, tracing the path down to his asshole as he sucks and licks. He stops, finger pressed lightly into the pucker of muscle, not penetrating, not yet. There's so much he wants to do with Bucky, and they haven't done this. He hasn't done it with anyone. But he wants to try--he wants to try anything that will make Bucky feel good; there's far too much pain in Bucky's past and he knows that nothing he does will make up for it or balance it out or anything like that--just, Bucky deserves to feel good, and Steve wants to be the one to do it for him. 

"Yeah," Bucky says. "Yeah, Steve," and Steve takes a second to pop off Bucky's dick and let go of his hand to fetch the lube he optimistically put in drawer of the bedside table a couple of days ago. Bucky slides against him as he moves and wraps his flesh hand around Steve's cock and strokes, and Steve nearly drops the lube. 

"Oh, Christ, Bucky." Steve lets himself fall back onto the bed and Bucky leans over him and kisses him deep and sloppy. Steve feels wound up, his balls drawing up, his whole body hot and flushed with Bucky touching him, all of him nothing but pleasure and desire. "Wait, Buck, I'm not done with you yet." 

"Didn't think you were, pal," Bucky says against the corner of his lips, and Steve rolls over and kisses his way back down Bucky's torso so he can take him into his mouth again. Bucky moans, and Steve fumbles the cap off the lube and pours what is almost certainly too much onto his fingers. He licks the head of Bucky's cock and presses gently against the furled muscle of his hole. His finger slides in through resistance. He goes slowly, carefully, listening carefully to the sounds Bucky makes to be sure he's hearing pleasure, not pain. Bucky's body is so tight around his finger, blood-hot and slick with lube. When he's in past the second knuckle, his fingertip slides over a spot that makes Bucky's cock twitch in his mouth. Bucky makes a sound like the breath getting punched out of him, so Steve moves his finger over that spot again. 

"Oh, fuck, Steve, _yes_ ," Bucky says, and Steve settles in, dragging the pad of his fingertip over Bucky's prostate while he tries to see how much of his prick he can get in his mouth at once without choking himself. Bucky's hands clench on the sheets and his hips cant up to meet Steve. "I'm gonna come," Bucky says, but if he means it as a warning, Steve doesn't care. He hums encouragement, and that's all it takes. Steve sucks on his cock as it pulses, swallowing Bucky's come, listening to him gasp and moan an inarticulate sound above him. He slowly removes his finger and then Bucky's hands are on his shoulder, pulling him up until he's even with him. 

Bucky kisses him, his left hand threading through Steve's hair, his right tracing a slow trail down Steve's side. Steve arches up against his hand, hungry for Bucky's touch, hungry for whatever Bucky wants to give him. Bucky's hand wraps around his cock, and Steve moans into his mouth. It feels so good, like everything he's ever wanted, and without his conscious intention, his hips rock forward and he's fucking into Bucky's hand. Steve's cock has been leaking precome, and Bucky smooths it down the underside, and Steve is making a noise he doesn't think he's ever made before. Bucky slides down his chest to suck at one of his nipple, and Steve shudders with the force of the desire that jolts him, like his nipple is a live wire connected to his dick. Bucky slides a metal thumb over Steve's other nipple, and the contrast between the cold metal on one side and Bucky's warm, wet mouth on the other is too much. He is wanting and wanton, every fiber of him saying to yes to everything that Bucky is, that they are together, and he comes over Bucky's hand, moaning his name. 

He lies back for a second, panting, body lax with pleasure. Bucky slides up next to him and rests his head against Steve's shoulder. Steve wraps an arm around him and kisses his temple. He rests his free hand on Bucky's chest, over his tattoo. "So was that all right?" he says after a minute of just lying there. 

Bucky snorts. "That was a lot better than all right, Steve. I was gonna reciprocate, only..." 

"Yeah, I got carried away." But Steve isn't even embarrassed. He can't be, not feeling as good as he does, with Bucky's body a solid line against his own. "That's fine. We've got time." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This takes place after chapter 21, when Bucky and Steve are about a week into being together and Steve's just gotten his dog tag tattoo. I also got into a twitter thread about Bucky's chest hair as seen in TFA when he's walking with his shirt unbuttoned and then I found this picture, so I tried to give Bucky the chest hair I wish to see in the world in this fic. 
> 
> If there's anything you want to see in the DVD extras, hit me up here, or I'm on twitter @deisderium <3


End file.
